“Close it, Jimmy,” said Mr. Joseph Cox, a small and dapper young gentleman with a very easy and cordial manner. “One of these days he will be the best slow left-arm bowler in Surrey,” said Mr. Dodson in an impressive aside to Mr. William Jordan, and in a voice sufficiently audible for Mr. Joseph Cox to hear. Mr. Dodson, having to the frank amusement of those gentlemen assembled, exercised his blandishments in vain to induce Mr. William Jordan “to have a finger before going up-stairs to see the ladies,” at length proceeded to conduct the young man thither without this aid, which he and his friends deemed most essential to the accomplishment of so grave an ordeal. “Don’t be nervous, old boy,” said his mentor kindly, as he took him firmly by the arm; “at the worst they can’t do more than eat you, and if they do they will wish they hadn’t.” “Are--are my--my sh-shoes all right?” stammered Mr. William Jordan in a hoarse whisper. “Right as rain, my son,” said his mentor. “And Mosenthal has turned you a treat. You look a regular poem in blank verse. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if they _do_ want to eat you.” As Mr. Dodson placed his hand on the drawing-room door the terrible sensations of that long year ago when the same hand was on the door of Mr. Octavius Crumpett again assailed the young man. Only to-night these emotions seemed to be more intense. And of late he had come fondly to imagine that never again would he become the prey of weaknesses so pitiful. His brain was dazed and his eyes were almost dark when bright lights and colours and a pageant of female loveliness was first unfolded to his gaze. It is true that the first of these ladies whom he had to encounter was not very beautiful: a fat, elderly, unemphatic kind of lady whose clothes looked odd, and who wore a kind of irrelevant dignity which somehow did not seem to fit her. “Mater, this is Mr. William Jordan, the young sportsman I am always telling you about,” said Mr. Dodson in a cheery voice. “Pleased to meet you, young man,” said this lady, shooting out a fat hand as a highwayman might shoot out a horse-pistol. However, Mr. Jordan had the presence of mind to grasp it, and at the same time to bow low. Beside her was a lady dressed severely in black. She sat very upright, and held a pair of glasses in front of her which she used with devastating effect. In mien she was aged and severe; in manner she was sharp and staccato, and with no more geniality than a piece of ice. “Aunt Tabitha,” said Mr. Dodson, “Mr. Jordan. Mr. Jordan--Aunt Tabitha.” This very formidable lady turned such a cold and resolute gaze upon the young man that sharp little shivers seemed to envelop him. It seemed to congeal the half-formed words on his lips. All the same he was able to go through the formality of almost bowing to the ground.